“Still close to impossible, at least if the ‘somewhere nice’ and ‘decent ski resort’ parts are essential. Budget?”
“We’re all pitching in, you should have some wiggle room.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises. All right?”
“I’m sure you’ll find us the perfect solution.” Just then, an announcement for all the actors to convene to the main stage comes over the theater speaker system. “Listen, I have to go now.”
“Yeah, I heard. Talk soon.”
We hang up, and I hop up the stairs two at a time, filled with optimism. After the grim Christmas we spent at the hospital last year, days away from Dad’s passing, a family vacation is exactly what we need to find our holiday cheer again.
Before opening the door to the stage, I stop. I should probably inform my boyfriend I’m planning a vacation for us. Brandon hates it when I call him in the middle of the workday, so I shoot him a text instead.
Hey, what would you say about a ski trip over Christmas?
Like a weekend thing?
More a week
My whole family is going
A week? I might as well tell my boss I don’t care about making partner.
Sorry, babe, no can do
My heart sinks, even if his reply didn’t come as a total surprise. In the almost two years we’ve been dating, Brandon’s job has always taken precedence over our relationship. When I met him in a bar in downtown Manhattan, his commitment to his career was one of his selling points. He looked dashing in a dark suit with his tie half undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up. And I was more than ready to move past the artist types I’d serial dated for years. Mostly broke dudes who spent their days being “creative.” Which meant they either slept or drank or got high. The type of guy who thought money was a dirty word. Guess falling for an investment banker turned the tables on that attitude.
I shrug as I put my phone away before re-entering the theater. Brandon or not, it’s still going to be the best family holiday ever.
Two
Riven
Preacher grabbed the guide rope, the straw coarse in his hands, and went groping down the passage on all fours. Doubts coiled around his soul just as the rope did around his wrist. What would await them out of the tunnel? Would it be any better than the mercenaries they were trying to escape? If they made it out at all.
Wyatt moaned behind him, the sound bouncing off the tight walls in a sinister echo. Preacher looked back. The faint halo of his flashlight cast a shadow on his partner’s figure slouched on the floor. Wyatt had lost too much blood. If they wanted to make it out of the caves alive, forward was the only way.
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzzz.
I tear my eyes away from the computer screen and curse at the phone. I forgot to turn it off and left it on the kitchen counter. Rookie mistake. I ignore the buzzing noise and go back to my manuscript.
Forward was the only way… and…
Nothing. The flow of words is lost. Whatever brilliant segue I was about to write has escaped my brain.
I bang a frustrated fist on the dining table and stand up. I might as well check who the bugger is.
Tess, my sister.
I know what the call is about, and I have zero patience for the guilt-tripping right now.
With the phone in my hand, I lean against the kitchen counter and stare out the giant French window in the living room. The sun is shining on the tall mountain peaks covered in snow. The slopes will open soon, and I would like nothing better than to take my snowboard and join the tourists on a black run. But today I won’t allow myself to go outside until I’ve met my word count. No matter that by lunchtime, the terrain on the slopes will be either mushy, hard packed, or scattered around in impromptu moguls. I sigh as I imagine the pristine white blanket it must be now and close my eyes regretfully. Not today.
The phone stops vibrating. Will Tess give up after one call?
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzzz. The buzzing resumes at once.
Nope.
If I ignore her, she’ll just keep pestering me. And even if I turned off the phone, the shadow of the difficult conversation would loom over my head as my Sword of Damocles.
Resigned, I pick up. “Hell—”
“Dad says you’re not coming home for Christmas,” Tess interrupts me.
“Well, no one could accuse you of not being direct.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Life has given you lemons this past year, agreed, but it’s no excuse to skip Christmas.”
“Tess, I have a deadline and I’m already behind. The last thing I need is to waste time booking flights, checking in and out of airports to fly home for just a day.”
“Then stay longer. You’ve been holed up in that cabin for months. I haven’t seen you since, mmm—”
The words she’s looking for are: since you announced your wife was leaving you for a C-list soap opera celebrity mere days after you’d started a complete remodeling of your house, which is now a construction site you cannot either sell or live in.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a minute.”
“Come on, Riv, we never skipped Christmas. If I came back from my gap year in Sri Lanka, you can take a 90-minute flight home.”
“Tess, I need to finish this book. I’m stuck.”
“You’ve been up there forever. If you’re still blocked after all this time, maybe a change of scenery will be good. Come on, it’s Christmas.”
I grab the counter with my free hand, knuckles going white. “Tess—”
“Dad is too decent to say anything, but I’m not. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t come home and use a stupid book as an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse, I’m months behind.”
“Riven Clark, I know you. You’re using your unfinished novel as an alibi to play the hermit and avoid seeing everyone you know. Cassie pulled a number on you. She should be the one ashamed to show her face in public, not you.”
I let go of the counter to massage my temple. The call is going worse than I expected.
“Please,” Tess insists. “Please, please, pretty please, say you’ll come home.”
“Okay, I give up, you win!” Fighting her is going to cause me more stress than simply giving in.
“Yay, you’ll have a blast at home, I promise. Oh, and Dad said you can stay with him, of course. I have to call him with the good news. Talk-later-love-ya-bye.”
Tess hangs up before I can add anything, just as the doorbell rings. That’s odd. It’s early for the mailman.
I go to the door and find the town marshal standing on the porch.
“Morning, Marshal,” I greet him. “What’s going on?” I’m not used to receiving house visits from local law enforcement.
“Good day to you, too.” He tips his hat at me. “Nasty business, I’m afraid. We have a rogue wolf on our hands. It sneaked up on old Ford last night while he was taking logs into the house and almost bit his leg off.”